Musings
by Tenebrus
Summary: ZADR One-shot: Completed. Slash. "You feel different from what I expected." Dib hypothesises on Zim's anatomy and proves his theories first-hand. Character study in graphic detail .


**Musings **

_Tenebrus_

You feel different from what I expected.

I don't know what I thought it would be like. Perhaps the feel of a dolphin in shallow water would be akin to you in sweat, mine or yours. But then I forget that you are allergic to water. I don't know why I forgot that. I had often mused after being awoken by dream/nightmares of you touching me touching you, what would happen if my liquids ever came in contact with you. If it would burn you like you burn me. Those nights, I drip in my sheets, kick them off, and then drip with something other than what had roused me. I try to get it in the tissue so that I don't have to clean before falling back into restless REM. I wonder if I will have to do that anymore, now that I have a receptacle for these midnight lusts.

I guess it started when I thought about you on the autopsy table. I know how wrong that is, but it isn't as bad as all that; I could never picture you dead. When I was little, I would try so very hard to daydream that feeling of triumph. Your limp body draped over cold steel, Squeedilyspooch spilling, Technicolored, out of your chest… or wherever Squeedilyspooches reside. But as I closed my eyes to picture it, you would only lay there, bound and whole, screaming curses about fists and worlds and my big head. Your silly dog-robot would always be there. Eating my food out of the cupboard. He's downstairs munching on my dad's Toast right now. I can feel it. I don't think Membrane will notice.

Anyway… I got taller. I didn't expect you to as well. God knows how old you actually are, but old enough to be an invader, which would mean older than me. I don't know how long Irkens live either. But around the time I hit my final growth spurt, you were alongside me. Was it our foreign gravity or something of your own devising? And knowing now that your class system is based on height, I must wonder why you never used that device before. The autopsy dream became increasingly more disturbing, and what I once relished, I began to dread. Your silly, high-pitched curses changed as I became more aware of feeling. You grew silent one night in the fantasy, and I worried, or hoped, that I had finally caught you dead. No such luck. You still struggled.

The struggling stopped a few nights later. The ropes, the tape, the steel chains all disappeared. You had always been naked (I could never stand you in the pink "dress" you invaders come outfitted in) but I became aware of that fact and in trying to dissuade myself from such thoughts, I started to think about your anatomy, which led to more fervent mental explorations. What orifices could a thirteen-year-old male find in his imagination? What orifices did you have? These thoughts also plagued me, even in the daytime. Bathroom trips and crossed legs became more frequent. Orifices were everywhere. Mouths, and lower… I wanted to see it all. Scientifically speaking, that is. I imagined it all, even – much to my chagrin – tentacles between your legs. That thought was stopped as soon as it began. I knew too much about Japanese culture to entertain it, and I didn't fancy myself in a schoolgirl outfit.

When you lay still on the autopsy table, yet alluring, I felt as though I had almost vanquished you in my mind. It wasn't right, but things got worse when I had thought they would get better. When the silence stopped, it became pleading. Come here, Dib. Eight-hundred moans reciprocated in my sleep. The autopsy table, when I lost consciousness and let my inner workings take over, was turned into an endless white bed. My only resonating thought was how ashamed the Swollen Eyeballs would be.

Then other scientific thoughts interrupted. I reasoned myself out of every one: Your tongue on my hardness, I surmised, would be lizard like at touch (in this I was correct); your posture would be missionary, human, in your bi-pedal nature (this was also accurate); you would rather be on top in a more alpha stance against me, continuing the rivalry to the bedroom (and again, I hit the nose). But your skin still haunted me, and the question of my saliva and sweat, caressing and sliding against you, biting you possessively. Each embarrassing desire became a new outlet to wonder and hopefully research.

I grew into my sexual prime still awkward, but no longer felt reverse-pedophilic about wanting you. I was eighteen and, even if you were over one-hundred, I was legal. Down to the last detail I wanted perfection. I wanted to see if you were rubbery between cotton sheets or not. But I never dared ask. It wasn't until this morning that I figured on having my fondest nightmares come to fruition. And then, I cornered you and you cornered me on some alley, and I felt my back pinned against hard, cold brick.

I remember your breath (sweet, cool) on my face as you told me you were done with the game. We agreed that it would end there. The metallic spidery-spindly arms protruded from the spotted pack on your back, caging you against me, and I felt eternity upon us. It was then that I scientifically proved my first conjecture: your tongue. It was in my ear and I had time to note the texture before moaning.

What had snapped, I figured out as you followed me home. Everything. Years of chasing, wanting, dreaming, hypothesizing. I had never felt your kind and you had never felt mine, and we wanted to know if we were right or not. If you would really wind up on top. If I would actually squeal when dominated. What we never questioned, though, was already there. The fact that, in ending the game, we both never wanted it to be completed. We started a new game in the alley and in my bed: I will chase you to the ends of the world and you will outrun me, all the way back to my room or your base. And we will curl up together, smirk, each knowing the day's victor. For you, it will always be you, and for me, always me. In winning, we have kept our prize. More scientific study after the lights are out.

But your skin was something I never really counted on. You must have bathed in paste to make the sweat sting less, and you asked me not to run my tongue across your green expanse, but after intense study, I have found you less rubbery, less alien, than I had planned. You feel more like roses. And you smell more like musk than I figured, as I bury my nose in your chest and drift into more useless musings.


End file.
